


The Pride of Nilfgaard

by headstcnes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Character Study, Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, F/M, Morvran-centric, Nilfgaardian politics, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Strangers to Lovers, i think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29152509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headstcnes/pseuds/headstcnes
Summary: Morvran Voorhis could win a war without any words. What use are trebuchets and diplomacy when a dagger and vial of poison can do their work just as quickly? All that matters is victory. A proud Nilfgaardian and the star of the Emperor’s court, it’s only natural that he would ascend to the throne. There’s only one small issue -- Emperor Emhyr var Emries’ daughter, Cirilla.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Morvran Voorhis
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20





	1. Voorhis, the Successor

A true Nilfgaardian never shows his true colours. Concealed by black and gold, a true Nilfgaardian must be the epitome of elegance. They must be steady, regal, assertive. General Morvran Voorhis is all of these things, and more. As the scion of the Voorhis family, it is only natural for him to be the pride of the City of Golden Towers. Morvran is a powerful man, perhaps _the_ most powerful man. The fact is not lost on him. He is to be Emperor Emhyr var Emries’ successor to the Nilfgaardian throne, for his noble birth and noble reputation. A decision that was not to be rectified. Not until the heiress to the throne of Cintra made her return.

Emhyr wanted her to be found. Emhyr wanted her to be _empress._ Every emperor needed one, Morvran supposed. He was there when Emhyr announced Cirilla’s return. He was there in the Emperor’s office, glancing idly at the oil painting on the stone wall. A surly young girl, with ashen hair and eyes of emerald green. Morvran knew the girl was raised with Witchers, had heard the rumours of the wild princess playing with swords instead of dolls. Cirilla was much older now, of course. The charcoal sketch on Emhyr’s desk proved so, if there were any doubt. A scar on her left cheek, framed by silken hair. Morvran suggested his Alba Division find her. Emhyr insisted the Witcher would find her instead. _The_ Witcher. The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia. Morvran supposed that was fair. A dog is much better suited for tracking, especially when a bag of coin is waved in front of his nose. When the meeting was through, Emhyr assured Morvran he would still be Imperator. Cirilla, should she choose to, would simply be by Morvran’s side. 

Later that evening, Morvran thought back to the sketch of Cirilla. He tried picturing her in Nilfgaardian robes. Would she detest them? Perhaps she would wear armour instead. The young nobles had never met. He had heard of her, through rumours and from Emhyr’s own word -- he is her father, after all. The wild Cintran princess. The Witcheress. A powerful woman, heir of the Elder Blood. Every emperor needs an empress. Morvran could only hope she’d be a willing wife.


	2. The Sorceress from Vengerberg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer of Vengerberg arrives at Vizima. Morvran has much to ask her.

The sorceress arrived the next day. Yennefer of Vengerberg. She claimed she had leads. She claimed she had a personal connection to the lost heiress, that she would do anything to keep the girl safe. Yennefer was intense. She would do well in Nilfgaardian society, Morvran thought, should she ever choose to. She certainly had the fashion sense for it. Yennefer took up residence in the arcane chambers. A familiarity, perhaps.

Morvran had questions that needed answers. An emperor needed an empress, though preferably one he knew at least a little bit about. Morvran took a pad of paper and an inked quill from his desk, and flitted through the crumbling hallways of Vizima to find the sorceress. She was where he expected, hunched over a desk littered with parchments. Morvran cleared his throat, an attempt to not scare her.

“Lady Yennefer,” he began, voice cheerful and thick with Nilfgaardian charm, “I do hope I am not interrupting you?”

Yennefer glanced over her shoulder, “a chance to talk about Ciri is a welcome distraction, actually”. The sorceress stood, turning to face the general. Morvran decided not to question how she knew his intentions. It was likely a sorceress thing. 

“She is the Emperor’s daughter,” Morvran began, preparing his parchment notepad, “as his most trusted confidant, I would like to know more about her. Perhaps I could even help in the search for her?”

Yennefer looked him over, eyes colder than the mountains of Skellige. She looked not unlike a raven, dark feathers and an intense gaze. Morvran did not falter. He could argue that he was asking on behalf of Emhyr, or that as future Emperor of Nilfgaard, it was imperative he knew at least a little bit about his potential future wife. But in truth, he was curious. Whether they courted or not would not be an issue. He just had to _know_. Was she kind? Was she funny? Would they be friends, at least? Morvran caught Yennefer’s gaze. It softened. She smiled, slightly and softly. 

“Ciri’s a clever girl, about your age. What is it you wish to know,” Yennefer asked.

Morvran rolled his shoulders, fixing his posture. It was certainly odd hearing such an informal name for perhaps the currently most wanted woman in the realm. What _did_ he wish to know? Well…

“I am aware you had a hand in raising her. I have heard rumours about her training at Kaer Morhen, the Witcher fortress. How much of that is true?”

“All of it. Ciri is like a daughter to me. I met her in Ellander, and I taught her magic there for some time. Geralt taught her at Kaer Morhen, yes. A Witcher in training. She never did the trials, of course, but the Wolves there put her through training as if she were one of them,” Yennefer went on, watching with amusement as the young general scribbled her words down, “but I take it you’re more keen on what she’s like, right?”

Morvran nodded, “like I said before, my lady, she _is_ of Nilfgaardian blood. The Emperor wishes for her return to court. It would be unsightly of me to be working with her, if I know so little about her.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. 

“She’s kind,” Yennefer began, “and perhaps a little stubborn. A lot like her father, actually”. Morvran couldn’t guess if she meant Emhyr var Emreis or Geralt of Rivia. Most likely the latter. The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies wasn’t particularly known for being kind. Yennefer continued, “she’s not… she’s not Nilfgaardian in any sense. I understand Emhyr wants her to return to court, but politics just aren’t her thing. I know Ciri, I know she wants to explore and see the world and it’s wonders.”

 _And I could let her_ , Morvran caught himself thinking. Yes, he very much could. Morvran lived and breathed Nilfgaardian aristocracy. Cirilla, it seems, has the choice of leaving that life behind her, despite the many thrones she has claim to. It’s poetic, almost. Maybe. 

“I await her return, then,” Morvran mused, “I am sure she has many a tale to tell.”

Yennefer simply nodded. Morvran pursed his lips, staring at his little pad of parchment. Yennefer’s account wasn’t detailed. In all fairness, he did put her on the spot. It would give him much to think about, though. 

“I believe I have taken up enough of your time, my lady,” Morvran finished with a bow, and left the sorceress to her ministrations.

  
  


Later that evening in his chambers, Morvran went over his notes from his impromptu interview. Cirilla, it seemed, was nothing like her birth father and everything like the ruffians that raised her. Was that a bad thing? The other courtiers seemed to think so. Morvran was unsure. Cirilla seemed courageous, kind. Beautiful. Morvran hoped so, anyway. Wanted posters were notorious for being off in their illustrations. No amount of daydreaming could detract from the matter at hand: Cirilla was being pursued by the Wild Hunt. They’d kill her if they had to, if it meant the power of the Elder Blood was theirs. Morvran had grown quite fond of Cirilla. He couldn’t let such a thing come to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said i might not update for a while? anyways i hope this makes up for the tiny first chapter lmao


	3. The White Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt of Rivia arrives in Vizima.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha funny interview scene
> 
> also shoutout to my pal moze for reminding me that morvran is canonically a st*ner 
> 
> fisstech gets mentioned v e r y briefly here but if sm*king/dr*g use is a trigger for you, it might come up in later chapters so just a warning for the future

The Witcher arrived the next day. Geralt of Rivia was an interesting piece of work, one that desperately needed grooming. All that dirt and monster guts would be an insult to the Emperor. Morvran was assigned to oversee the preparations for the Witcher’s audience. Morvran took up his parchment pad once again, opting for charcoal as his writing instrument instead. This time, the questions were not about Cirilla. Rather, Geralt’s past… misadventures.

The Witcher was to be scrubbed in one of the guest chambers. The correct one was not hard to find - one only needed to keep an ear out for the irritated grumbling. Morvran pushed the door open with his elbow, coming upon a very naked and very annoyed Witcher. The chamberlain stood fussing over him. The poor man was trying to strip the Witcher of his unruly facial hair, looking as though one wrong move might get him bit. Morvran simply grabbed a chair by the door and brought it over to the barber’s chair. He could think about the ramifications of seeing his possible-hopefully-future-wife’s naked adoptive father later. The chamberlain eyed Morvran warily.

“General, I am not certain this is the most appropriate time-”

“I can’t think of a better time. Men turn honest when they feel a blade at their throat.” Morvran approached the shaven Witcher, sitting upon the spare seat he had brought over. 

“Morvran Voorhis,” the general introduced, “commander of the Alba Division. Before they take you in to see the Emperor, Witcher, there’s some information I need you to verify. It’s a formality, but one that must be seen to.”

Those amber eyes drifted to him, disinterest written on the Witcher’s face.

“Sure. Paperwork’s gotta be in order.”

“So, Geralt of Rivia. Place of birth -- unknown, parents -- unknown, age -- unknown… all insignificant details. Let us proceed more to recent events…”

The interrogation went fine. Emperor Emhyr was pleased with the results. Morvran had never met the Witcher formally until this point -- had only heard of him through the mouths of scoffing nobles. He was every bit as sarcastic, contrary, and dramatic as Morvran could’ve imagined. Cirilla wouldn’t be like that, though. No, the heiress of Cintra would be a refined woman. Morvran was certain.

The general and the Witcher did not meet again until hours later. Morvran successfully hid an amused snort upon the disgruntled Nordling stomping about in a silk doublet. It was terribly jarring seeing the man out of armour. A funny sight, though. They had a pleasant talk about neutrality, and the weather in Toussaint. Perhaps when the war was over, Morvran would visit the duchy again. Their wine was better than Vizima’s, at any rate.

After that, the Witcher left. Had left Vizima entirely, actually. Off to find his Surprise Child, to save her from the Wild Hunt. Morvran could’ve helped. He _wanted_ to help. But alas, his talents were needed for the war effort instead. Morvran had no time for search parties, not when he had soldiers and spies to mobilise.

The sun was setting in Vizima, her orange rays filtering through the decayed cobblestone walls of the palace. Morvran dismissed himself from court. His living quarters in Vizima were a touch more modest than his home in the City of Golden Towers. There was a map of the continent on the wall, with squadron positions, camp locations and other landmarks identified by pins. A desk sat below it, covered in paperwork. Morvran had no desire to do anything about it. He had squires for that, naturally. A queen size bed was positioned by the window, draped in black-and-gold linens, with a stone fireplace across from it. Upon his bedside table was his pipe. In the bottom drawer -- his fisstech stash. Not that anyone needed to know about _that_.

Despite his attempts to make his quarters sophisticated and comfortable, it was still so terribly _Temerian_. The walls were rough stone and the floors were rotting wood. Hardly a marble palace. Still, Morvran had a soft bed and a warm fireplace. It was better than the central camp. Morvran sat upon his bed, unlacing his boots.

 _Perhaps I shouldn’t judge_ , he thought, _Kaer Morhen is older than Vizima. It’s unlikely to be in better shape._

For a moment, Morvran wondered if that was where Cirilla was hiding. Holed up in a crumbling keep. No, she would’ve been found already if she were. He then wondered _how_ the Wild Hunt could find her, and why. Just because she’s a child of the Elder Blood? Morvran doubted elf blood was truly that precious. Or noticeable, for that matter. Cirilla looked human. Emhyr looked human. Perhaps it was just some Aen Elle superstition. Morvran still doubted the Wild Hunt even existed, but Emhyr _insisted_ it was the truth. Geralt, too.

Morvran pulled off his gloves, unbuttoned his coat. Stripped off his armour in military fashion. Velen was where the Witcher was headed. Velen, then Novigrad. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Maria in some time. Novigrad was supposed to be lovely this time of year, if you ignored the mage pyres. Perhaps it was time Morvran paid his dear friend a visit. And, if he could catch the Witcher in his hunt for Cirilla, all the better.


End file.
